Thongs On A Plane

On Thursday night my male staff dragged me from the warmth of my pigloo and told me that I had to keep him company while he drove to our local airport to pick up my female staff's frantic sister and her calm partner, who were flying in to visit my female staff's Mum who hasn't been very well. To entertain ourselves while we waited for their plane, which had been delayed due to a minor technical fault, (That's airline speak for "The pilot is drunk and we have to find a sober one.") my male staff and I played a game of Guess the Passenger's Occupation - a fun game for all the family. The rules are very simple.  You just have to shout out whatever occupation you think that each passenger has as they come through the arrivals door. It's quite entertaining, especially for the other folk waiting to meet people.  Of course since all my guesses sound like "wheek!" to humans I am at a distinct disadvantage.  So anyway, we played our little game as we sat and waited, with yours truly on my male staff's lap.

 "Butcher!"
 "Wheek!"
 "Hairdresser!"
 "Wheek!"
 "Check-out chick!"
 "Wheek!"
 "Doctor!"
 "Wheek!"
 "Hooker!"
 "Wheek!"

You get the idea. I usually win of course. My male staff was telling me how when he first started travelling he always used to wear a suit whenever he flew anywhere. Those were the days when flying was a really special event. Nowadays it's just like catching a bus and people dress accordingly. Most of the people on Frantic Sister's flight were wearing shorts, a blue singlet and a pair of thongs, (That's flip-flops not skimpy underwear, though they may have been wearing that too for all I know. I didn't like to ask.) including the captain. My, how standards have slipped over the years.

So, at last Frantic Sister and Calm Partner arrived and were driven to female staff's Mum's house where my male staff thoughtfully slowed down slightly so that they could leap out of the Getz without getting too badly injured, though their luggage which my male staff kindly threw out after them was a bit scuffed and the bag containing a large ornate glass vase that Frantic Sister had bought as a gift made an pretty little tinkling sound as it hit the kerb.

Then on Saturday the poor old Getz got another thrashing when my staff took me to the Queensland Guinea Pig Refuge to help them choose two more suitable companions for me following the passing of my great pal Boris. This is a truly wonderful establishment run by lovely, dedicated people who obviously care for and love guinea pigs. It's even worth mentioning their website in case any of my readers require their services. http://www.qldguineapigrefuge.com.au/  They look after mistreated, abandoned and no longer loved piggies. They have a no euthanasia policy and are very careful about who they allow to adopt.  I was going to report my staff to them for treating Baci and I so badly, but I thought I'd better give them one more chance.

When we arrived there were piggies everywhere and the place was filled with happy wheeking as the inhabitants chewed carrots and chased each other around their enclosures.  After fourteen hours my staff still had not been able to make up their minds which guinea pigs to adopt, and the refuge staff were starting to yawn and look at their watches. Two or three of them had actually changed into their pyjamas and were sipping from mugs of steaming hot chocolate.  In the end my staff decided to let me choose. The first two piggies I mounted were to be the lucky winners. So they let me go in the enclosure.  That's how we ended up with with Alfie and Tom.

Tom and Alfie. Tom is the one who looks like a large hairy caterpillar.

To round off a busy few days my staff invited my female staff's Mum, Frantic Sister and Calm Partner to dinner on Saturday night. Female staff's Mum was in fine form, regaling us all with stories of the old days on the family farm. We'd all (except Tom and Alfie) heard them before many times, but they were still fun, like watching a favourite old sit-com.

For instance there was the time when a truck carrying carcasses from the local abattoir rolled over at a sharp corner on a remote road nearby. The driver was unhurt, but the truck was totally wrecked and there were bits of meat scattered all over the road.  The driver walk a couple of miles to a farmhouse to call the police. (Bear in mind that this was 1950 something so there were no cell phones.) A young rookie police constable, not more than three days on the job was sent out to the crash site, arriving there before the driver had walked back from the farmhouse.  The driver found the constable unconscious among the chunks of meat. The poor constable had fainted, thinking he'd come across an horrific crash with multiple gory fatalities.

Then there was the time that the local CWA (Country Women's Association) went on a bus excursion to a race meeting at Scone. Incidentally the CWA is such a conservative organisation that it makes Ronald Reagan look like a communist.  Anyway, old Betty Scrimmage (aged seventy nine) had a few too many lemonades in the hospitality tent and decided that it would be a good idea to flash her boobs at following motorists through the rear window of the bus. I don't know where my female staff's Mum got this, but she swears that she heard a conversation that took place in one of the cars behind the bus.

Little boy in front seat  -  "Gosh Dad! Did you see that lady in the back of the bus?"

Dad (Driving the car)  -  "Yes son, I certainly did."

Little boy  -  "What was she wearing?"

Dad  -  "I've no idea son, but whatever it was it needed ironing."

BACI'S BALONEY

Whoa! We've got like too noo housemates and wun of them looks like a kattapilla - a reely big hairy wun.  I sez to him. Dude, wat sort of piggy are yoo?  And he's like "Well, on the reffyooj website it says I'm a try coloured Peruvian."  And I'm like "Dude, yoo should try harder coz yoor mostly wite."  And he like goze off in a huff, and I'm like " Wat?  Wat did I say?"